My name is Loc. Nguyen Van Loc.
Most people call me Lazy Loc, and honestly, I’ve earned it.
Three days ago, something stupid happened.
I didn’t think much of it at the time — just one of those tiny, careless moments you forget five minutes later. But tiny moments have a habit of growing teeth in this city.
Now, half of Saigon is addicted to sugar, and the other half is growing whiskers.
I’m not joking.
I woke up this morning to the sound of my neighbor screaming at her reflection in the mirror.
“WHY IS THERE FUR ON MY FACE?!”
She’s not alone.
Across the street, office workers in wrinkled shirts scratched at their chins where soft white whiskers had sprouted overnight. Some already looked like disappointed Persian cats forced to wear business casual. The women weren’t spared either — delicate little whiskers framed their perfectly drawn eyeliner, making them look strangely elegant and terrifying at the same time.
I checked my own face in the cracked mirror. Still smooth. Thank god for small mercies and a lifetime of poor hygiene.
Downstairs, the auntie who sells sugarcane juice at the corner — Bà Năm — was doing excellent business. Her stall had a line stretching thirty meters. People weren’t just buying one cup. They were buying liters, gulping it down like addicts who’d found their new religion.
“More syrup!” someone begged. “Extra sweet!”
Bà Năm’s own whiskers twitched with pride as she poured. “Only the best for my loyal customers,” she said, voice hoarse from shouting orders. Yesterday she had been quietly cursing the heat and the electricity outage. Today she was basically a sugar queen.
I bought a black coffee — no sugar, obviously — and sat at the plastic table outside the café across the street, watching the circus unfold.
A man in his forties, probably a bank manager, walked past with a briefcase in one hand and a giant plastic bag of pure white sugar in the other. His whiskers quivered every time a motorbike honked. He looked like he was fighting the urge to bat at the sound.
My phone buzzed. Work group chat.
Boss: Urgent meeting at 9 AM. Attendance mandatory.
Boss: Also… anyone know why my face looks like this? HR says we’re not allowed to comment on it.
I almost bursted into my coffee.
Three days ago, everything was normal. Traffic was hell, food was good, and the only thing I had to worry about was whether I’d turned off the ceiling fan before leaving the house.
Now?
Now people were licking walls if they thought there might be leftover sugar on them. Last night someone posted a video of a guy trying to rob a convenience store — not for money, but for the entire shelf of condensed milk. The robber had been crying while stuffing cans into his backpack, whispering “I’m so sorry… I just need it…”
The news channels were still trying to sound professional.
“Scientists are investigating a possible link between the recent power fluctuations and a sudden surge in sugar cravings across Ho Chi Minh City…”
Power fluctuations.
Right. That’s one way to describe it.
I stirred my bitter coffee and muttered under my breath, “All because I was too lazy to walk five steps and flip a switch.”
A stray cat jumped onto the table, stared at me with judgmental yellow eyes, and meowed once.
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” I told it. “My bad.”
The cat licked its paw, completely unimpressed.
By afternoon, things had escalated from “weird” to “this city has lost its mind.”
A new trend was born on TikTok: #WhiskerCheck. Young girls were filming themselves fluttering their new facial whiskers while doing aegyo. Office guys were proudly showing off their “battle whiskers” during Zoom calls. Someone even started a petition demanding the government recognize “Whisker Rights” and add a new category on ID cards.
I walked home slowly, hands in my pockets, trying to pretend none of this concerned me.
But deep down, I could feel it — that tiny stupid decision from three days ago was still rippling outward, picking up speed like a snowball rolling downhill in hell.
As I reached my apartment building, I saw my downstairs neighbor, Ms. Lan, standing in front of the entrance with a worried expression. Her whiskers were longer than most, elegant and slightly curled at the tips.
She spotted me and narrowed her eyes.
“You…” she started, then stopped. Her whiskers twitched. “Never mind. Just… make sure you turn everything off properly from now on, okay?”
I froze for half a second.
She should’ve scolded me like usual with the most gruesome comments ever known to men.
But today she didn’t.
I forced a smile and nodded.
“Yeah. I’ll try.”
Ms. Lan walked away, muttering something about sugar and bad decisions.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling fan visible through my open window on the fourth floor. It was still broken, one blade hanging sadly like a guilty witness.
Actually, I called over a fan repairman yesterday to fix up the mess, but mid way through, his whiskers had somehow grow the wrong direction and kept on tickling his noses as he let out a massive sneeze and teared the poor thing apart. I did get a refund though.
Sighed.
“I just wanted to sleep in peace.”
Somewhere in the distance, a group of whiskered protesters chanted:
“Sweetness for all! Whiskers are freedom!”
I rubbed my smooth face one last time and headed upstairs.
This was only the beginning.
And the worst part?
I still didn’t feel like turning off that damn fan.
